Gliding over glass
by unnafraher
Summary: A pair of drabbles set during the period from 1814-1918, when the Nordics were going their own ways for awhile.
1. Denmark & Iceland, 1898

Getting his left hand all the way through the sleeve of his shirt is a bit of a challenge, but Iceland manages. The small buttons down his front are easy even if his fingers do get a little lost under his cuffs at times. And, finally, he has dressed himself for the first time.

Denmark, kneeling in front of him, smiles, dazzlingly happy and proud in this moment. There's fraternal pride, as well as paternal.

"There ya go, Ice!"

Iceland doesn't smile back, but lowers his head a bit. He puts his hand to his neck, thinking that he needs a tie of some kind. This is his first Oxford shirt after all. "Mm. I've got it."

"Not yet! Just wait a moment," Denmark says. He rummages in his back pocket, pulls out a white ribbon. With a quick few moments he has it around Iceland's neck, tucked under his collar with his thumbs, and is making progress with tying it. Then he stops for a moment, lost. Iceland's small hands are gripping the backs of his own.

"Ah!" Denmark smiles, and then he is working again. With a final tug, he tilts his head and his hands return to his lap. "There we go. So cute!"

Iceland's hands touch the bow now tied at the base of his throat. He tries to imagine how he looks. "Hn…"

"Yer brother would hug ya 'nd squeeze ya 'til ya squeaked," Denmark says, still smiling. Always smiling—though tones have shifted, and even though Denmark is clearly in this moment, in 1898, Iceland suddenly feels displaced in the others presence. Uncomfortable, somehow uncertain, he shifts his weight and frowns. Denmark does not notice. Iceland is thinking of Norway, his brother who presently resides somewhere across the sea. Across the wind scourged Skagerrak, across gray waters he imagines as quickly, suddenly rising, rising almost up over his head.

"Nor used to tie his like this," Denmark says, putting a hand on Iceland's shoulder. "But he likes to have his collar closed. He's that kind of a stuffy guy, you know."

Any of the previous significant differences in the atmosphere is beyond Denmark, but he does _feel_ how Iceland jumps under his touch. His instincts kick in. "Hey, Ice? You okay?"

"Yeah," Iceland says, looking away for a moment. Then he looks back, his features drawn tight by the earnestly intense seriousness of a youth. "Norway wouldn't baby me like this."

Denmark laughs again. It's a loud, amused, and hearty laugh, but this anxiety clenches Iceland's heart again. He thinks something like, _I'm too young for this health problem. _Dumb volcanoes. "Just wait 'til he sees ya," Denmark says.

Denmark is still smiling, smiling through what is one, two, three beats.

And then Iceland hugs Denmark. It's a full, good hug that's an embrace, small hands grasping fistfuls of coat above Denmark's shoulder blades. Iceland is comforting this man. He remembers Denmark's tears—Denmark used to cry sometimes, and he would hold Norway like this even when he was the one crying himself.

But Norway is not here.

And, he thinks, his own anxiety is connected to Denmark's use of the present tense, or a sure tense when referring to Norway. "Stop it," Iceland says into Denmark's shoulder. _Stop. Stop, stopstopstop—_

Breaking away, Denmark puts a hand on Iceland's head. "Oi, Ice! Ya don't have to be your brother."

Another beat. Iceland, looking out over Denmark's shoulder at his own bed, window, and small desk with its surface occupied by an open Danish and Icelandic Bible, cannot see if Denmark is smiling or not. "I don't understand."

Denmark is, however, rubbing his back. It is ridiculous how much of his back is covered by only one of Denmark's hands. His own hands on Denmark's back in comparison are so small. No use at all.

And then Denmark is up, smiling down at Iceland. "Come on, we're running late."

They've been ready for the day for a while now.


	2. Norway & Sweden, 1818

Out on one of Djurgården's lesser trodden paths, Norway has been walking for about a quarter of an hour before he halts. His coat is suddenly wrenched from his shoulders, forced down past his elbows. The cold suddenly penetrating through his linen shirt is almost as surprising as the coat's sudden absence, and Norway jerks backwards and forwards and backwards, somewhere between trying to coax his overcoat back up his arms and moving too quickly.

And then he hears it tearing. His nice coat, sewn by a Norwegian tailor, rips on an overgrown tree scourged by Swedish wind and winter. Turning around, he observes his blue coat hanging there, dangling there, in a strikingly desolate way.

He can hear the wind, and somewhere off the sound of bells. He cannot remember what he had been thinking about two minutes earlier.

Face as blank as a cloudy night sky, Norway moves to collect his coat from the branch it is still snagged on. For a moment it feels like someone might be watching him. He gets the coat and dismisses the feeling. He runs his fingers over the coat's collar. He put his hand through the large hole running from the collar's base halfway down the back, where it gathers before flaring at the bottom.

"Damn," he says to no-one. Figures. It is dangerous to be doing things alone in Sweden, especially if those things involve any kind of slight deviation from what is the obvious and assumed norm. Tread from the well-laid and prepared footpaths, and then see what happens. Imagine what lurks for social outcasts.

But Norway does think this is a little dramatic to think, a little bit too much even for Sweden. Turning around again, he begins to head back the way he came, towards the residence he has been sharing with Sweden in winter, when they're both in Stockholm in the winter. He has the coat back on, so along the way his back and neck are occasionally blasted with cold. His strides are quick and warming.

**…**

When he arrives home Sweden's nowhere to be found. Probably at ficka or a meeting with someone important. While he removes his boots Norway still announces, "I'm home," to let any fae or other friends know. Just in case.

Norway makes his way directly to the kitchen.

He stokes the low fire in the kitchen hearth and stands with his back facing it, which warms him up fairly quickly. The whole time he looks at his coat in his hands, running his fingers along the tear, trying to figure out how many stitches it would take to fix. Also how to begin stitching it in up the first place.

Maybe a patch would do? Using his palm as a measure, he begins to imagine it. How long since he'd try to sew, too? He can distantly remember tunics and cloaks, coarse and smooth fabrics on his fingers and palms, as well as Iceland's, Faeroes', and Greenland's things. Not very much because they were such small children, behaved children who hardly ever wrecked their clothing, and by the time they'd started to grow up it was Denmark who was doing the family's sewing. If it wasn't done by _their_ hired help.

The crackling of the now strong fire crowds out the other sounds of the house—the servant sleeping, the wind, distant but not defeated, rattling the clouded window panes.

Sounds. Norway realises a little later on that life has been continuing on around him, that time has passed and that that ruckus just now must be Sweden arriving home in the gloaming. He can only see the coat in his hand because it is lit by the fire which is no longer so strong.

"Home," he hears Sweden call from the front of the house.

Norway looks up, at the dark walls and entryway he expects Sweden will be standing in a few moments—and there Sweden is, unwinding his wool scarf, cheeks red and hair windblown.

"Lights not working?" Sweden asks. With one hand he gestures at one of the darkened corners of the room. Not quite black yet, but shadows are beginning to bleed over from the recesses into the entire room. Norway's own shadow plays dramatically on the wall behind him.

Norway shrugs. "Didn't think about it."

"Not good for your eyes, you know, to work in the dark."

And Norway shrugs again as Sweden moves to light oil lamps. Norway says, "Guess I'll just have to wear glasses like you. Also, Inga's still sleeping." He nods vaguely in the direction he assumes the maid is in before returning his attention to his coat.

It seems much more colourful in proper light, more practical, less mysterious. As well as the hole appearing bigger in this full light. Sweden is gone from the room for a moment, returns a little later with a drowsy blonde twenty-something trying to stay on his heels. Her dress and braids are the frumpiest Norway's ever seen them.

She isn't scolded exactly, but the look Sweden's giving her isn't easy on her nerves. Her posture straightens and her excuses wither before she can unload them, like Sweden has instantly and effortlessly lured out her work ethic. It seems a little too weak for her to last much longer, though.

Suddenly, Norway has an idea.

After the maid has gone on to collect some more firewood before departing for the evening, Norway follows Sweden to his study. Sweden only means to collect something and check a thing or two before starting dinner, so his brow rises when he's confronted by the smaller nation, is suddenly a little more harried and stressed.

Lately these kinds of confrontations haven't gone over so well.

"Fix this," Norway says. He then extends his coat to Sweden. Dumps it on the other nation's desk, on top of a leather-bound report, with the rip prominent to make sure his meaning is clear. _Fix this. _He's not the least uncomfortable with not including a please or some other nicety. Doesn't dread a rejection. He simply looks at Sweden, and Sweden looks from him, to the coat, and back.

Sweden traces along the hole with his eyes. "What happened?"

"Got snagged."

Sweden is quiet for a moment, again.

Then Norway says, with a completely unimpressed look about him, "I know you mended Finland's things." Now you'll fix mine, is implied. Like this is some unspoken part of the agreement they're in reality still discussing, still negotiating around. Norway is not Finland's replacement.

He has not come here, not been _taken_ here to replace Finland. Sweden may be dead-set on convincing Norway of this, but that doesn't mean Norway's not going to enjoy any possible perks. To be a polite, distant guest.

Norway leaves the room.

The only sound is the wind outside, it is getting cold now, and Sweden leaves the room too because someone has to start dinner.


End file.
